Unmasked
by DonLarez
Summary: A tortured Northrend Veteran by the name of Ronald Clive becomes one of Alliance's investigators. For his entire career he obsessed over a series of brutal, seemingly unconnected assassinations. As Azeroth faces more and more world ending dangers, Clive teams up with his partner Garett Gaves to try convince everyone to acknowledge the unseen threat that is The Faceless Killer.
1. Most Perplexing of Huts

**Author's Note: I just want to point out that it is my first fanfiction ever. I decided to develop my English writing skills in more profound way than poetry and really short stories. Of course, bilinguality is hardly an excuse when it comes to actually publishing stories, but I guess that it's at least worth a try. Despite years of roleplaying, I am hardly a WoW lore extraordinare. Reading a few Warcraft books doesn't really supply you with that excessive ammount of information, so I won't really touch that many incredibly deep plot points. I'm more than willing to develop, though, so yeah...**

Chapter One

There were single beams of moonlight piercing through dirty windows. The hut's interior looked as if it went through a hurricane, which tossed furniture around like ragdolls, fiercely smashed pots to the ground, and scratched floorboards like a curious fox. Bodies of the cutpurses, who once occupied this lonely abode as their hideout until then, were lying lifelessly near the hatch to the basement. A few mercenaries with dark-green leather armors were walking around in search of some extra riches for their hard work. Unluckily to them, the group of bandits they just hunted down was just starting out with presumably little to no experience, so no interesting things were to be found. The house itself was boringly uninteresting as well; just a simple abandoned cottage, which, if the Intel was correct, once was owned by a lonesome huntsman, who disappeared a long time ago. It was free for the taking, since it was settled in one of the most secluded areas of Elwynn Forest. A perfect place for what was to occur.

One of the hired blades was admiring a mediocre piece of art near the front door: a poorly drawn snake in the middle of a jump towards some ambiguous flames. He shrugged off his first impressions and proceeded to light candles all around the room.

All of a sudden a goblin dressed in a set of pitch black tuxedo clothing came through the entrance. What was most peculiar about him, however, were intense, deep scars scattered around his right cheek. Few muscly goons appeared from behind him, they held heavy, wooden crates with bunch of shining, varied weapons stuffed in them. They put them down at the other side of the hut and immediately went back outside. The small, green creature then ordered for a chair to be placed near him. As he sat on it, he pulled out a small watch and carefully studied the time.

"They should be here any minute now, gentlemen." He pointed out with a weary, gruff voice. "Continue cleaning up, we will dispose of the bodies later. As I have previously declared, I expect us to remain here for the next twenty four hours. I promise that you will get your aforementioned extra for this inconvenience as soon as we will have arrived on my boat back to Kalimdor."

He hid his handy watch, wriggled for a bit on the chair and took out his notebook. He spent the next twenty minutes studying it closely and calculating his future expenses.

Then a few bleak voices could be heard from the outside through the ambience of nature. There have been some heavy clunking as well, indicating an armed presence. Some mercenaries tried to subconsciously rally and get ready for a fight, yet the others spontaneously stopped them, assuring the rest that everything was in order. The front door had opened, and through it m came a small group of men in impressive, golden blue armors and equally impressive tabards with Lion Heads sewed on them. There were six of them in total; fully equipped and armed. The one with the shiniest and most detailed Lion head, obviously the leader of the bunch, immediately had noticed the pile of dead bodies and gave a curious look towards the goblin sitting in front of him.

"I reckon you are the exchanger, little guy." stated the officer.

"Oh, but of course, welcome to my promise land!" the goblin crossed his legs and lifted his hands up in a theatrical fashion.

"I'm in no mood for games. The garrison expects our arrival first thing in the morning."

"Oh, you will get what you want. Tell me first, did you leave any of your goons behind?"

"Enough to bust you if you try to screw us." The officer scratched his thick eyebrow and crossed his hands. "So I advise you not to try anything funny."

"Oh, oh, oh…" the hideous creature sighed out, obviously discontent with his speaker's response "I am of course just a businessman, as long as there's coin, then there's promise of absolute friendship until the transaction is done. And we both know you're here alone, so I'd advise you to keep this relationship, make it last a little bit longer."

"Look, there's no need for introductions, here's the pay."

An overfilled pouch of gold had been tossed on the ground by the youngest soldier. One of the hirelings collected it and gave it to his temporary boss, who then proceeded to toss the sack around, admiring the sound of coins' twanging.

"So, are we done here?" asked the thickest alliance trooper who nervously held onto his blade hanging from under his impressive belly.

"Not quite." Started the goblin "You see: I have to specifically count the money to see if you kept your promise, which was to ensure my proper payment. I also need proof that you guys were not clumsy enough to steal it from your garrison's budget, since it will undoubtedly result in rising suspicion amongst some of your inspectors, who for the past few years started to care deeply about proper management of your army's money. Eventually they will start questions after which some of you might tell of what had happened here tonight. This will result in me, and my acquaintances, not being able to pursue our businesses in Elwynn Forest for a long time. If I find out about any, even tiniest hole in your plan, then you won't leave this place alive." He let out a hideous grin. "Do you agree to my terms, or will I have to end the deal with an unnecessary bloodshed?"

The officer hadn't even flinched, as if he was suspecting the request. He exhaled disappointingly though, and after a brief moment he took out a sealed roll of paper and proclaimed:

"Here I have an official paper with the result of a monthly budget count conducted by our Garrison's chief accountant and a Chief Stormwind Inspector. It is a valid copy of the original document and has all the seals and signatures, indeed proving that money we have given you right now is from our private pays."

The goblin finally rose from his chair and exclaimed excitedly: "Splendid! Splendid! Let us move to the basement, so that I can inspect the papers' creditability. Both of us shall take someone with them, so that we will have witnesses of our final agreement!"

Everyone in the hut started moving in various directions. The dealer had already chosen to take the biggest man with him. The officer licked his lips in a worried manner and took his most muscly soldier as well. After a while, the partakers of the transaction went down to the basement right through the hatch.

Suddenly everything became quiet. Mercenaries, seemingly calm and collected, took their positions and waited for the deal to be done. Soldiers, who remained, looked around anxiously still ready to draw their blades whenever necessary. The whiskered short one and his bulky friend waited near the hatch. The brown-haired, handsome one patrolled near the front door. The recruit, skinniest and youngest of the bunch, looked out one of the foggy windows, hardly noticing anything. He sighed out, hoping for this awful situation to be over. Singing of crickets could be heard as if they were in the house, being curiously loud that night.

The rookie started counting off passing seconds, clumsily pretending to keep a leveled head. The quietness—disturbed only by area's creatures—concerned him quite heavily. He thought he heard a repressed ripple from the other side of the wall near which he was standing. He immediately discarded it as his imagination, but some mercenaries beside him seemed to be getting rather upset.

A few brief screams followed by heavy thumps came from all around the hut. Everyone inside had drawn their weapons. No one was sure what was happening, yet the feeling of distrust had risen immensely. They waited for a few seconds, not sure what to do next. There wasn't a sign of life coming from the outside. Finally, the brown-haired soldier decided to approach the door and open it. He's done so slowly and patiently, yet with no apparent fearfulness.

Before he managed to reach the handle, the entrance was violently kicked open. No one could react before a mysterious vial appeared midair, landing on the middle of the room. Everyone gave out confused shouts before falling down. Man by man descended on the floor lifelessly. There were a few men still standing; among them was that little skinny recruit, who felt his limbs weaken, yet still somehow held himself steady well enough not to succumb to the poisonous cloud. Before him appeared a figure which he wasn't able to see very clearly just yet. It attacked those strong enough to still stand on their two feet. Its moves were graceful and effective. All it took for the rest to give in was precise stab in-between armor plates. After one or two blinks of an eye, the only one standing was the youngster, yet he just stood paralyzed by his panic. He observed the intruder tossing another vile to the basement and then throwing himself down the hatch. This time nothing was to be heard but three heavy body drops.

"No, no, stop thi-"the surly, terrified voice coming from beneath the floorboards got cut out in the middle of its pleading for mercy.

The rookie couldn't help his weakening body and leaned against the wall. He slid down, completely numb, yet regaining clearness of his vision. He felt a tear rolling down his cheek; his heart was racing furiously, pounding off his chest. The attacker reemerged from beneath. He or she wore a black, leather-like armor with grey markings going down to the knees. Belts with small daggers and pouches were clenched around the waist and biceps, dark strips were scattered around the legs. The entire outfit looked oddly merged with the stranger who was wearing it, but for some reason it was hard to tell if it was a slender female or a muscular male. It wasn't the most noticeable thing, though. The most conspicuous element of the set was the mask. It thoroughly resembled a crow, yet the pair of eyes was replaced by a pitch black visor. The material was stretched all around the head, lack of hood made the entire exterior look both grotesque and terrifying.

There was a foolish hope in the youngster's mind that the horrific assailant might have forgotten about him, the miserable unimportant recruit passing out near the windows. The expectation for survival got fully extinguished when the intruder started approaching him. His or her movements made absolutely no sounds, as if this figure wasn't even real.

The mask's features became clearer before what happened next.

* * *

The meeting hall was peculiarly dim that afternoon. Clive didn't know if it was because of smoke coming out of inspector's mouths, or because the windows weren't cleaned in days.

"So...Mister Clive," started a portly man with a grimy beard, "we have already interviewed Private Rands as well as your fellow investigator Garett Gaves. To wrap up those hearings, we would like to hear the final relation to compare it to other ones. So, shall we proceed?"

The man gave out a polite, tired smile to encourage the start of the confession. Clive hated being looked at by those pretentious idiots, but it was unavoidable. Everyone was on their toes for the past couple of days, and every single case required closure. After a brief pause and a reassuring look from his chief—who was sitting beside the interviewers—he took a deep breath.

"Yeah, I was working in my office at the Stockade when Lieutenant Gaves came in to say there's a commotion at the Mage's Quarter. We immediately left and got into our car. When we arrived there was a dozen of City Guards surrounding a small shop named "The Ivan's Elixirs", they were hardly able to explain even simplest bits and pieces of the story. From what we have gathered, Jonah Asylo, a former alcoholic and blacksmith, came in to the shop and took its owner hostage. Me and Lieutenant Gaves came up with a plan to breach the back door and took few guards with us. Private Rands picked the lock and we came inside as quietly and cautiously as we could. After a brief passage of time, we noticed a trail of blood on the floor."

Clive stopped to take a sip from his cup. He let the herbal tea moisturize his throat, and with this comfort he hemmed and continued.

"We have not noticed anyone in the clear vicinity. Soon the trails started leading upstairs, so we ordered Rands to open the main entrance for other guards and, when given a mark, proceed to apprehend the suspect. We picked up our pace after we heard screams. When came up the stairs, we have noticed a body lying on the floor. It was a minor, probably the owners' son, but I was not able to see if he was able to breath. I ordered Lieutenant Gaves to give a sign to Rands, and I kicked open the room to which the trail of blood has led. I saw the suspect behind Ivan, ready to slit the apprehended victim's throat with a pocket knife. I have asked him to see reason, but he was shouting at me incomprehensibly, possibly in a drunken slur. Soon the reinforcements have arrived, but then Jonah Asylo threw his knife at Lieutenant Gaves who was just coming into the room, the blade had connected just below my partner's left shoulder. It turned out that the aggressor also had a small pistol with him and shot Ivan in the back. I have responded with a shot to the suspect's knee, but he did not even flinch and attacked me with another knife. I have avoided his swing and pierced his chest with my service dagger. Afterwards, Rands cut the suspect's head off clean."

One of the inspectors had coughed, others were writing the confession down without any second thought. Clive felt rather uncomfortable because of that carelessness, but on the other hand, why should they care?

"Can you go on, Mr. Clive?" asked the beardy man.

"Yeah, um…then I rushed to Lieutenant Gaves and ordered the men to see to Ivan and his son. The kid did not survive, he bled out in seconds. Ivan was taken to the intensive care; gladly I have heard that he survived. Gaves's wound was minor, but he seemed to be in shock. The suspect was, obviously, deceased. After a brief search of his pockets, we have noticed a few empty phials, which were giving out an intense smell of alcohol. We have no knowledge as for the actual contents, but it is obvious, that Jonah Asylo was under its influence. We should have full chemical report in a few days…"

"You digress, Mr. Clive," said a rather uninspiringly boring looking, thin man with small glasses on his long nose. "Was there anything more that had happened after the unfortunate incident?"

"Ah, yeah," Clive crossed his hands and scratched his chin. "Other guards have secured the area, one of them threw up outside, Rands went to see to Ivan's son…to no avail of course." Clive inhaled the air deeply, and then let it out. "But eventually Main Chief Captain Tobias Erlan came to the crime scene to further secure it and thanked for our assistance."

Silence hit the room. Tobias Erlan was sitting just beside the beardiest inspector. The captain seemed to be generally uninterested in the entire confession, and no one could have blamed him. It was just another case, another day. Just before the ambience hit the highest level of uncomfortableness, one of the inspectors, who was a grizzly balding gnome, said with an unpleasant, obnoxious, distant tone: "Thank you Mr. Clive, we commend you and the rest of the team for your bravery. You won't be hit with any criminal charges, nor will your reputation be stained with penalties for misjudgment, misaction, or overuse of power. You have done your jobs the best you could, and we are grateful for that. You are free to go."

Clive took his cup and got up reluctantly. Tobias also stood up and gave the detective a suggestive nod indicating that they should talk. Clive went out to the corridor and waited for his chief to finish talking to those truly saddest people on Azeroth. Clive put his hands in his pockets and watched people passing by: soldiers, servants, scholars. For the past two days everyone was in such a rush.

Tobias eventually left the conference room. He was a bald, wrinkly, but well-built man in his fifties. His glory days were obviously over, but he still had an aura of respect. He wore a tidy tuxedo pants and equally neat shirt with an alliance tabard put over it. Alliance badge shined proudly on his left breast, indicating how truly elated was he in his work, even it didn't have to be true. He wasn't as weary and distraught as the rest of old men in the department, so talking to him was a nice change of pace, even if every talk shared between Clive and Erlan had a formal subject with not so many pleasantries. This didn't stop them from using quite profound language.

"Bunch of losers, no?" Tobias stated with an ironic tone while lighting up his pipe "I still have three more interviews. This case-closing rush is a mess."

"I hear you." sighed Clive "Why did you want to talk, though?"

"Listen, I know your reputation."

"It sounds like you want to finally fire me."

Erlan chuckled before inhaling from the pipe and leaning against the wall.

"Not over my dead body, sadly it won't happen soon. Either way, I know you're out of the loop lately, since the past few days have been rough. I want to know if you know that we've received news about our big victory in Draenor."

"That's why everyone's in such a hurry."

"Exactly," a sign of weariness has shown in chief's voice. "Everyone's on fire now. There seems to be a big rush to bring back as many people as possible in the shortest time to end our criminal understaffing. Because of that, my schedule is full and sleep seems not to come anytime soon."

"I see."

"That's why I wanted to ask you, you eat steak?"

This question perplexed Clive, since he never spent any downtime with his chief. The little he had ever given himself, of course.

"Yeah, I do. What are you proposing?"

"Ah, I don't plan to marry you anytime soon. I have a free evening in three days and I hoped you'd like to join me so we can talk crap."

"Well, sure." Answered Clive awkwardly, scratching his neck. "I'll let you know if I'm off."

"Great, great," Erlan scratched his bald head. "Ah, I have to go back suffocate in this Light forsaken room. Go back to the Stockade, Ron. Take it easy, though. We need you at your best."

"Well, Toby, I'll try"

The both shook their hands and went their ways. As Clive left Stormwind's Keep, he saw bunch of guards run up to see the king. He went down the stairs, which lead to the main hall, and looked at the sky. It seemed green to him, but it might've just been the lack of natural light as of late. He inhaled, and—amidst the chaos and people rushing everywhere—thought about Captain Erlan's proposal.

Yeah, things have been hectic lately. What's the news?

* * *

Clive got up, sweaty and cold, realizing only after a while that he was still in his office. It was close to midnight and he still was in the process of sorting all the paper work. Gaves's desk was empty, since he was to come back to work the next day. The room was awfully dark, since the candles have burned down. Clive lighted them up again, took off his reading glasses, and pondered. He should've been going home, but he didn't feel like it. This stocked, cluttered room was his home. This is where he kept his medals, commendations, books, and liquor, which was kept neatly in the last drawer if he ever wanted to relax. He kept order in all this mess, and prided himself in it. The days flew by quite painlessly in all this work, with an occasional rise of adrenaline—like the Jonah Asylo case.

Tiredness overtook the investigator, making him get up and go to his private chest. On top of his trusty blanket laid bunch of pictures he used to draw throughout his Northrend deployment. He tossed them away and took out his coverlet. He came back to his chair, collected all the files, put them in his "trash shelf", covered himself up and stretched his crackling bones.

A yawn escaped his mouth as he looked at the celling.

* * *

"Just a quick shut-eye" he muttered before passing out for the rest of the night.

"Clive…" said an unknown voice.

"Clive!" it repeated itself angrily with thousands of other voices overlapping it.

"Clive, wake up!" he heard the abominations stomping beside him.

"Ronald, for Light's sake!"

He finally woke up, shaken and frenzied, only to see his partner Gaves at the door.

"Get up, we got something." Said the middle aged, tall man with whom he had just a tolerable relationship.

"What is it?"

"A mess, I'll tell you on the way. Do some 'hygiene', I'll wait outside."

Ron got up, feeling the deep scar on his right arm burning. His bones felt as if they were cracking, but he finally managed to stand on his two feet and look at himself through the mirror at the right side of the door. He didn't keep up with dental hygiene for the past few days. His short, black hair went left and right, his scruffy cheeks shrieked at every touch, showing signs of edgy overgrowth which mauled his hands with each touch. He still didn't have any pleats or folds luckily, but bags under his eyes revealed the truth about the slow approach towards his late thirties. He cleared his delicate, yet multiply broken nose, looked at his strong chin and went on to grab some spare clothes.

He checked the state of his well-trained stomach and cringed at the slight floppiness of his chest. After a realization of time hit him, he accelerated putting on his tuxedo. He holstered his pistol on the right of his hip, hid his handy service dagger in a secret pocket, polished his shoes, huffed on his badge and went outside the office. It was located nearly on top of the Stockade, the corridor to it was short and narrow, yet it still held a small anteroom with six chairs and a desk with outdated announcements and more recent reports of Varian Wrynn's actions. He left the cozy hallway, descended down the square staircase with a big window watching over it, went by the stairs to the prison at the ground floor, and finally left the building.

The gang was all there: Gaves talked to Erlan, who shared some words about something with Warden Thelwater, who immediately started sharing some more words with his riflemen. They all immediately noticed Clive, who was exiting the Stockade.

"Clive, the car's here. Giix Fastscrew will drive you to the place of crime." Said Erlan

"Oh?" Ron shrugged "What's this all about, though?

Gaves gave Erlan an understanding gaze and muttered: "We think it's your 'Faceless' guy."

Clive didn't need anything else to liven up and focus on what was to come. Tobias went away without a word, taking Thelwater with him and giving him some instructions. Soon the investigators left to the Stormwind Outskirts.

"You sure it's him?" Asked Clive

"They told me we'll believe it when we see the aftermath of his work." Responded Gaves

"Let's get to it, then."

Ron coughed and closed his eyes checking if the abominations from his dreams were gone.

* * *

It didn't take them too long to arrive. Giix the gnome driver turned off the ignition near the Tower of Azora, where three soldiers were standing and waiting. Clive thought he recognized one of them as he exited the car: a decent looking, blonde haired young lad with average muscle build, but impressive posture. The thought mixed with a bit of observation turned into a complete assurance.

"Oh, Private Rands?

"Lieutenant Clive! It's an honor to meet you again. How's Lieutenant Gaves?"

"Ah, it's ok!" stated Gaves while putting his hands behind his back and smirking "The psycho's toss was quite pathetic, he didn't even hit anything important."

"Good to hear, sir!"

"So, Rands…" Ron put his hands in his pockets "Fill me in."

"Ah yes, our orders were to lead you to the crime scene in the forest."

"How deep is it?"

"You'll see" sighed Rands.

It took them twenty long minutes to make their way through the denseness of the forest. No one said anything throughout that time, and eventually a small hut appeared in the distance with some treeless space around it with bunch of guards patrolling it. There were three dead bodies dressed in leather jackets near the front door. A skinny soldier with quite a childish face sat on a big rock silently, while looking at the distance. A broad, short, long haired man with a really bushy mustache greeted the oncoming investigators with exaggerated gestures before speaking with a really masculine, deep voice.

"Lieutenant Ronald Clive, Lieutenant Garett Gaves! Welcome, welcome" he shook their hands with a strong grip. "I am Sergeant Dunstan Thorp."

"So…um…" Clive started, surprised by the soldier's liveliness. "Can you fill us in? What happened here?"

Dunstan's expression got more serious as he shook his mustache thoughtfully, inhaling few shallow breaths.

"A local hunter followed his pray towards this unregistered hut. He said all he saw were these bodies that you can see now and a young guard just sitting on a rock. He reported backing off and then made his way out of the forest and contacted me and my troops on our way back from a morning patrol. We followed the hunter to the hut and I tried to talk to our fella on the rock." Thorp look at the kid, who expressionlessly gazed forward. "He talked nonsense at first, but then gave his full name and rank as if he read if from a book. I told Rands to try and talk to him as we explored the insides of this abode. Let me get you inside."

Gaves and Clive looked at each other. Gaves still had his hands joined behind him; Clive scratched his thigh and followed the mustached Sergeant. After a moment of reluctance, his partner picked up the pace.

There was only one room in the house, filled with bodies of men in provisional armor, and amongst them laid three dead men in full Alliance plating. The fattest one had a terror written on his face, yet there was hardly any sign of fighting. A weak scent of sulfur filled the air. A man in a white woolen shirt came from down the hatch, carrying a toolset with him. A technician, Clive thought. Thorp, after this brief pause, continued the story:

"Looks quite comedic, doesn't it?" he chuckled and swirled his mustache yet again, then came back to a serious expression and sniffled. "The young catatonic lad told Rands that they arrived here in a small group of six, including him. All of his friends are here; dead. They're soldiers from Westbrook Garrison."

"Westbrook?" interrupted Gaves "It's on the other side of the forest!"

"Yup…" agreed Thorp "Yup, it is. Anyway, this is all we gathered from the boy. He didn't say what were their intentions, why they came such a long way here and what they were doin'. But, the story seems to be obvious. See those crates?"

The sergeant pointed at two big wooden crates full of weaponry of various kinds.

"We don't think those Light forsaken goons wanted to set up their base here for long. In the modest, small basement down this hatch over there, we've found something more. With the bodies stuffed there it's hard to fit in there, so I reckon only one of you can comfortably go down."

Gaves raised his hand.

"I'll go." He said.

Clive chewed his teeth collecting what he heard for a while.

"Ok." He said back.

His partner went down quite quickly, and Thorp renewed his report.

"The dead goblin there is Danez Gearsnipe. You guys heard of him?"

"Oh yeah, that's the arms dealer traveling all around Azeroth doing shady business under authority's noses. No one could bust him, since he covered his tracks rather well." said Clive.

"Oh, quite a mouthful, but yeah, that's him alright. I think it's clear to me that by his presence here and a rather fortuitous pouch of coin left on a table in the basement, he and those soldier folk wanted to make a deal. Illegal transaction of new, freshly imported weaponry is quite a stain on soldier's career, but I guess it's up to you to break it to the boy. Oh, and one more thing."

"Yeah, Thorp?" asked Clive as Gaves came back up.

"The fool muttered one more thing about a…assassin. He wore a mask, a crow's mask, and supposedly poisoned and killed everyone in the hut. That explains the bloodless massacre."

Clive didn't even flinch at this information; it was way too obvious for him from the head start. Everyone poisoned, only few people downed with precise stabs, and a quiet yet not entirely silent survivor covering only half of the story.

"Yeah, I guess it's too clean for an imposter. It was him, it was him." Clive stated. "What about the hunter, though? Did he have anything more to say?"

"Naaah," answered Thorp, "he just stumbled upon this hut. Quite conveniently the morning after all this happened, but you'll interview him soon enough at your office I reckon."

"Ok, ok…thank you, Sergeant. We will proceed to look around."

"Make yourself at home" The mustached fellow gave out a pretty pleasant grin and went outside.

Gaves and Clive put on their gloves and investigated the scene. Only two bodies in the room had any signs of blood on them. The door was kicked open, which was the only indication of force. There haven't been any signs of the assassin ever being there physically, as if it was wind that killed all of the victims. No windows were broken, not an object moved with or without intention. The sulfur in the air showed yet another characteristic flavor in it: Caramel. It became obvious that it was no work of an imposter. This was the only unmistakable trademark of the Faceless Killer. Only his poison had a smell like that, no one could counterfeit it.

Now Clive went down to the basement. It was indeed tiny and stuffy; the smell was even more intense there. The goblin's throat was slit—this meant he was the main target. This assassin only murdered his primary targets in such a graphic manner. The big muscle beside him suffocated from the poison, so did the officer and his own bodyguard. The only piece of furniture in this tiny chamber was a table. On it laid the pouch with a note near it stating "evidence!"

After fifteen minutes of extensive—not entirely invasive—searching, the investigators have left the hut. Rands and his two friends have left the scene, probably getting some more specialists. The young soldier still sat on the rock looking at the same spot.

"You wanna talk to him, or should I do it?" asked Gaves.

"You're more of a people person." Responded Clive.

"But you're more 'know people' person."

"I never heard worse statement, you have talent"

They both let out a brief, awkward cackle before Ron approached the young man and crouched beside him. He let a few seconds pass and looked at the same spot the soldier was looking at. They didn't say a word to each other until the youngster broke the silence.

"Private Joel Keats, recruit in Lieutenant Upton's squad, deployed in Westbrook Garrison, tasked with patrolling and occasional armory protection!"

Clive didn't say anything but continued looking and waited for something more.

"There used to be seven of us. We were…attacked by…by…"

Joel stopped his muttering only to meet the investigator's silence.

"She…or he wore a fully pitch black outfit with a crow's mask. It…it had a visor but no life in it."

From a short distance, Gaves and Thorp were sharing a few words while curiously observing other detective's work. Other guards tried to ignore the conversation and walked around, bored.

"I…I didn't want to be there…that's that…"

Half a minute had passed before Clive got up and reassured Joel by patting him at the shoulder. He walked to his inquiring observers and told his partner:

"Tommorow he should be fit for an actual interrogation." He turned his stare towards Thorp "Take him to Stormwind and let him rest, preferably in a cell. He already took part in an illegal deal, so he has to be charged with that. He's a valuable witness though, so don't do anything stupid."

"Alright, you're the boss" Sergeant sniffed "You know the way back?"

"We do." Said Gaves "But tell Rands to hang some damned cords or you all will get lost eventually."

"Will do…will do." Responded Thorp, shyly. As the detectives left, he went on to give orders to his boys.

"What you've gathered so far?" asked Clive's partner while they started their way back.

"That it's another dead-end, annoying case."

* * *

The apartment near a calm street at the Old Town would probably be too tiny for a person with Clive's—questionable by few—reputation. He didn't care, though. It was roomy enough for his occasional rejuvenation, and since he rarely ever left his office, it was just enough to keep his most personal things from Gaves's curious eyes. The accommodation had a small living room with a reading chair in front of an unpractical fireplace which he seldom used due to possibility of throwing the entire room in flames. The kitchen was joined with it, yet the stove hasn't been used in a long time. Clive mostly ate out, since he never had talent for cooking. He had a decent supply of cookies, though, and bottles wine stuffed in the counters. His bedroom had nothing else than a bed and a small table beside it with spare candles. In it there was a door to the bathroom, or rather "the hygiene's home", where in a claustrophobic space were contained basic supplies to look like a moderately civilized citizen.

The files were scattered all around the kitchen counter towards which he pulled the chair. He studied the most famous cases, which the possible work of his favorite assassin, and focused on his patterns. The Faceless Killer always wore different masks, which on the beginning of his activity made the authorities believe that it's not the same person. But every single time he was slick and fast, cold-bloodedly killing everyone involved with the main target's interactions at the time of the assassination.

The Faceless Killer is a highly anonymous assassin, who has never shown himself to anyone but his victims. He communicates through letters delivered by couriers from the criminal underworld. He's always been extremely cautious. No one knew about him before he started leaving occasional survivors. They always told about different masks, not remembering the assassin's gender or what he or she done to them before they blacked out. No one knew why the iconic caramel poison didn't affect them lethally; no one was able to learn anything. On one hand the killer, through his or her work, tended to expose corrupt officials, terrible criminals, and other filth. On the other hand, the controversies and corruption afflicting murdered Alliance's elite tended to leak to the public, often causing intense outrage. The absolute worst part was that innocent onlookers were often killed as well.

Clive closed all folders, knowing that he will just confirm what already has been obvious. If everyone had believed him sooner after the assassin started leaving witnesses…some still don't. Even he wasn't sure if it was just one person doing that. He tried to believe that the best he could, yet he never found proof. He took off his reading glasses and put them beside a glass full of wine. The wind outside sounded different that night as he pondered what he should ask the current witness. He sat there, alone, in the kitchen until he drifted off to sleep.

Before dreaming of abominations, he wondered what mask The Faceless Killer will put on next.


	2. A Watchful Heart

Chapter Two

Those eyes from behind the counter—as haunting as they were—reminded him of something. A promise made back in the days long gone? What could be so familiar, and yet so odd about them? The stare wasn't directed at him, so he could observe freely as the server filled up previously full mugs, holding them with a firm grip under barrel's tap. Gaves smoked his pipe, thoroughly observing the character's features. He caressed the edge of his glass and pondered until he was interrupted by a feminine voice, which he could at least categorize to his more real memories.

"Garett! Oh, how long, how long it's been!" Shouted the woman with a rather unexpected enthusiasm.

"Oh, um…"

"I never knew drink at Pig & Whistle! I come here every other day!"

The night elf had startled Gaves more than she usually did back in the days with her random, loud approaches. She looked as inviting as ever with her white hair tightened at the back of her scalp, her smooth, boney hands, and her athletic figure.

"Cheerful and lovely as ever, eh Shin?" stated Gaves tiredly as he put down his pipe and took a sip of brandy from his glass.

"Ah, stop it. Your 'enthusiastic' complements make me blush!" She responded ironically.

Lively music started playing in the tavern, making clientele take their dates and let themselves get carried away by a dwarven folk band's intense playing. Shindae looked at Garett suggestively, but he answered with a disapproving gaze stating that he is in no mood or shape to dance.

"Why the long face, GG?" asked Shin with genuine care.

"Ah, I'm just tired and angsty" he licked his lips and leaned back on the chair hesitant if he should order a next drink. "Last few weeks were rough."

"Oh, don't tell me about past 8 years, will you?"

"Well, they were rough 'round the edges"

"Yeah, there were just some little nuisances every now and again, no biggie."

They both gave out a chuckle as Shin raised her hand and asked barmaid for a drink. Garett couldn't get his eyes away from her fantastic profile which underlined her feminine features with fantastic bone structure, cute curved nose, slightly pointy chin. He scratched his rusty goatee and turned his head to his right, pretending to look into other parts of the inn.

"You were starin' GG!" gasped Shindae

"Oh, I think it was because of you being you."

Awkwardness overtook them for a moment, yet the atmosphere turned more comfortable rather quickly. Shindae received her drink and immediately took a sip.

"So, uh…I didn't know you're operating in Stormwind."Started Gaves.

"Oh, it's a 2 months old assignment. Logistics, resupplying; I am just being a pet doll in the middle of bureaucratic hell."

"How bad is it?"

"It's…both boring and terrifying" Shindae's eyes twitched "The only catch was that it was hard to…take hold onto people's insanity. We didn't know how to deal with The Shattering, now it comes to this."

Gaves looked at her with concern, sensing intense stress in her body language.

"But soon I'm being relocated." Her eyes livened up "Finally I'm not gonna be used to count, but to lend a helping hand"

"Oh yeah, I've heard about the navy's mobilizing. You're going?"

"Master Shaw asked me personally. I just want to go out there and not spend the rest of my career counting, sorting and drinking."

The music became even louder and the crowd even more cheerful. Someone threw a bottle to the ground and shouted victoriously. Someone eventually grabbed him by his shoulder, but his intoxication made him unable to fight back. Only a few onlookers cared enough to throw an eye onto the commotion; Gaves and Shin only heard a smash through the constant laughter and vigorousness. They were both sitting without a word until she finished her drink. Garett raised his hand to the barmaid, yet she indicated that she'll only try to get to them as soon as possible.

"I threw my eye onto your files, GG" Shindae stated as if she let out a big secret.

"Shin…"

"You have a new partner?"

He grabbed his pipe and immediately lit it with a spare match he took out from his shirt's pocket. Inhaling from his favorite mix of tobacco always helped him focus. His lungs—now filled with smoke—felt lighter than before.

"That's right, but…" Garett sighed "He's…he's peculiar."

"Read he's a…vet?"

"And more than that, or so I thought, but we barely ever talked. We almost only speak about cases."

"He's not the face of a party, then?"

"He's quite…I dunno, obsessed."

"I've also read about Harsworth's case."

"Oh, it's only a part of his obsession. He, he tries to convince everyone about some pattern, that the murders started way earlier than we think."

"Anyone treated him seriously?"

Before Gaves could continue, the barmaid finally got around taking their orders. Not wanting to make her work too tough, they ordered an entire bottle. After all, catching up is quite a ritual.

* * *

The waiting room to Erlan's office was full of visitors, so Clive decided to let them all finish before filing in his report. There were city guards, victims of certain crimes, and even some old folk with dozens of papers held tightly under their sweaty pits. It was the faction's custom to make things more difficult for the elderly to follow bureaucracy. Chief always dealt with them fast enough to focus on more serious matters. Inspectors hated it, but it was their work to hate things.

Ron looked at the pictures of Alliance's heroes placed along the wall and was glad that he wasn't one of them.

The door opened yet again with the one and only Tobias Erlan holding the doorknob, letting out an angry woman, who rushed to the exit as fast as she could. As Tobias noticed Ron waiting behind the line, he sighedand excused everyone, so he could ask his detective to come in. Chief still had drops of hair around his balding head of which he always took great care. Clive approached casually, yet rather clumsily, holding his report file with an unsure grip whilst feeling everyone's eyes on him. He entered his chief's office and sighed out with relief.

"Just tell me what you've got." said the captain without even a glimpse of passion.

"That's just the recent stabbing and the month's office work summary" Responded Ron as his files were grabbed from his shaking hands, which only now started to get calmer. "Not much…"

Erlan poured some water to his mug and muttered:

"Sure, I'll sign them and give the summary to the accountants. Just tell me why you're really here."

Clive gulped, but soon enough, regained his reassurance.

"Yeah, I thought about that talk."

"And?"

"I…I'd like to take three days off…I think that's reasonable enough."

"So…you finally came to your senses, then? You'll sleep on your nonsense?"

"Eventually, I think. Essentially I just want to finally think about other things. I, um…want to regain focus."

"You know Clive, as one who detects lies faster than a priest; you are damn awful at spouting them out yourself." Erlan crossed his arms and observed the investigator thoroughly. "Come on, what's going on? You were so reluctant to…"

"I need to rest, chief." Said Clive with completely emotionless, tiresome tone. "I know it sounds like cheese, but I want to fit in. I promise when I come back I'll be on a double for whatever Garett covers for me."

"Alright…"

"Hm?" Clive gasped.

"I said alright." confirmed Erlan with a small nod. "You'll get your leave. The chaos can always wait for you, of course. Besides, you actually deserve it if you don't mind me being the first to acknowledge that."

Clive didn't say a word; he was rather surprised to hear the first sign of approval from his boss. He only bowed towards him, wanting to mutter something more, but deciding to shut in his further opinions and head for the exit before being stopped in his tracks by additional statements.

"And one more thing; before I assign some additional help with Gaves's work."

"What is it?" asked Ron without looking back.

"You know that we letting you out for a paid leave would raise suspicion."

"Don't pay me, then. I can handle it."

"Just wanted you to know that." proclaimed Erlan before getting up, yet not to help his detective back, but to throw his reports to the "to-do" drawer in his desk. "Hope you'll rest. There won't be a shortage of work after you will have been…" the door swooshed and slammed as he was about to finish "…back"

* * *

There wasn't much he needed from the office; he only grabbed what was absolutely necessary. The only things he took from his chest were spare reading glasses and eye drops. He opened up his most private drawer from which he took the copies of recent closed cases he obsessively studied for in search for a pattern. He grabbed his bag and put everything in cautiously before hanging it on his shoulder, pretending not to be in a hurry. Gaves, who was sitting at the desk on the other side of the room, read some random papers while deep in thought, not paying attention to his partner's doings. Clive turned off his lantern and was about to set into the night.

"Not cozying up in the office tonight, man?" asked Garett with a joking tone.

"Chief will fill you in first thing tomorrow morning." Clive stated hurriedly.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Before any answer was given, the room was already empty. No rest it seems, Gaves thought before sighing and going back to work.

* * *

Harsworth's file shook with Clive's trembling hands. There wasn't a sign of nervousness about him, though, since the caravan he was in only stumbled upon a tiny rock beneath its wheels on the road to Lakeshire. Ron tried to focus and ignore other travelers, who were just sleeping at that time. He hardly managed to catch that ride, he ran all the way from the Stockade to the Outskirts in the middle of the night, hoping that there'd be at least one last seat for him; he couldn't believe his luck when there was one. No one was very talkative inside the carriage, everyone eventually drifted off to sleep.

Clive couldn't stop but think about the passing time, hoping that his contact was still waiting for him. He knew why Erlan let him go few days after the news of Deathwing's defeat hit the city. The city guards in his sector needed to stop gossiping about Clive's loopy theories about some of the murders from past year. He wondered if the sudden out spark of respect in his recent talk with the captain was honest or not.

"No matter" Ron whispered under his nose. "No matter, it is how it is."

He finally put on his glasses and opened the folder to inspect its contents for a thousandth time. Max Harsworth was murdered approximately two months ago. He was a retired merchant famous for his support of Stormwind's orphanage, a humble celebrity and businessman, a father of three boys. He was killed with his bodyguards while selling a young woman to horde slavers in Booty Bay. Everyone was brutally slain—along with the woman—yet there was something odd about that. Clive took out other cases and made himself comfortable at the carriage's corner; reminiscing and reassuring himself in his theories.

Dagger cuts on the bodies were awfully similar to the ones left in the murder of Desmond Pawns from a year ago. He had no connection with Harsworth, and disturbing secrets as well. No enemies, no dangerous relations, nothing to connect him to other cases. Wounds had tiny marks sticking out of regular slashes, as if some kind of tiny fangs were attached to the main blade. It was unlike anything Clive had ever seen, assassins don't like leaving such characteristic marks. Why would he, she, or they kill a lonely construction worker? Ron thought of it as the first murder, it happened just after The Shattering. Good time to start your criminal career.

The methods of murder became less brutal and more distinguished, the killer killed with more precision and less blood spilled. Eventually the murder stopped being singular, the assassin began killing targets while they were surrounded by other people; no matter if innocent or guilty. What about the guilt? Victims' crimes began to be procedurally more severe. First there was a dwarf, Joredon Brightbeard, who was selling overpriced adventurers to naïve adventurers. A simple miser, yet he and his partners were killed minutes after they closed their shops.

Osmond Tarrich, a sailor who illegally smuggled alcohol from Durotar , was a breaking point after a few other cases. He was charged two times with rape, yet they were dropped. After him, victims were always guilty, yet never had the killer left any witnesses or clues. Tarrich's death was even more peculiar, since the knife marks became vaguer, unidentifiable.

After Harsworth's murder, Clive became an official investigator. He got assigned to the case and eventually gained access to the archives. The pattern became too clear for him after the first month. Everyone believed it to be a work of the underground, some gangs hired untraceable killers who murdered those who interfered with their businesses. Ron had other theory and started looking for similarities in seemingly different cases. Ron tried to convince authorities that Pawns wasn't killed randomly, that he was connected to other deaths.

In the past year the assassin killed twenty targets. In the flood of cases after Deathwing's attack on Stormwind, a lot of unsolved ones were abruptly closed to ease of investigators' and analyzers' work. No one cared about them and they were gathering dust in the corners of the archives, never to be solved. Everyone told Clive to stop looking for the pattern, but it was ridiculously obvious: the assassin was developing. There was better precision, bigger supply of weaponry, lack of moral standards, a guilty victim, and similar style of killings. With the risk of the world's end, detectives were working overtime on a daily basis, often helping out inspectors and officers with their duties. No one knew about their work's purpose anymore, but Clive knew what his was. He was sure of his intentions, despite his superiors' ridiculing him, calling him obsessed with unimportant work, and giving him pointless, chaotic cases only to not see him in the archives over old, forgotten files. He rested assured that he's going to do one thing: prove everyone wrong.

Five days ago Deathwing had fallen. Four days ago Ron received a letter telling him to travel to Lakeshire and meet up with its author at the local graveyard. After wrapping up most important work, Clive was free to go.

A file dropped down from his leg, waking up an old gnome who gave the detective a judgmental look before drifting off to sleep again. There were five other people in this fancy looking carriage, one more oblivious than the other. Eventually Clive put the files back into the bag, calming his nerves and stopping himself from reading them again.

His scar burned again, this time not from trauma but anticipation.

* * *

The carriage was stopped by two dangerous looking guards just before the bridge. They checked the wagoner's papers and looked at the passengers with distrust. Clouds were pierced by first signs of sunlight, which have complemented the orange color palette of Redridge Mountains. The hold-up didn't last long, so the carriage drove forward without any problems. It stopped soon after crossing the Lakeshire Bridge, making Clive thank fate for the end of this uncomfortable journey.

Dwarven blacksmiths were already at work as the city hall's clock watched over the small town with an inn beside it, shining with an inviting aura. Ron strolled casually, enjoying the beautiful view. He decided to make his way to a gang-board in front of him and look at the graveyard on the other side of the lake. No one was there waiting for him, but he felt a presence in this town. He couldn't describe it, nor understand it, but amongst all those hard-working blacksmiths, rising fishermen, and busy looking guardsmen, someone was already observing him.

This feeling disappeared as subtle breeze caressed his tired face.

* * *

Shindae's gestures became less predictable with her every sentence. She talked about her last month in such vivid detail, yet Garett couldn't fully focus on her. The gaze was somewhere in the inn, he could feel it. He didn't think about the validity of his flashbacks that started haunting him. He broke the eye contact with Shin and looked at the server who was stuck in the endless spiral of refilling mugs, yet his eyes weren't haunting anymore. Suddenly someone from the dancing crowd seemed to be looking at Gaves with that chilling stare, but it didn't last long. Confusion overlapped him, making him question who he was.

"GG, is everythin' ok?" asked Shin with a worried tone.

"Yes, yes, I am just…" he gave the inn one quick look around "I am just overworked, can't think. I feel like a bloody ant."

"Aren't we all just ants in our reality?"

Garett thought about that question. It truly seemed that for the last few years someone was constantly poking their anthill.

"Oh, but I digress." As she said that, Shin poured yet another glass, and without any question, refilled Garett's as well. "I bored you enough. What about Clive, though? He was right, no?"

"Yeah, we think." Sighed Gaves. "He brought some questionable evidence, but we doubt that it's a work of a single guy. I still think those are gangs, I think Ronald is just overthinking, looking for similarities when there's none. We don't know anything 'bout anything other than that…"

"Garett…"

"…Redridge incident, and it was already vague as i…"

"GG…" Shin grabbed his wiry hand softly. "…let at least one night not be about work, hm?"

"Shin, I…"

"What is it?" her eyes shined with interest.

"N…nothing, you're right"

He broke her grasp to fill his throat with burning alcohol. His breath started smelling like flames as his insides were filled with toxic goodness.

"You're thinking about him being absolutely right." She stated, sure of her observation.

"He spent his entire life being right; his files shout that. He never flopped a case, and actually had friends in his past life." He stopped and bit his lip deep in thought. "I want him to be wrong."

* * *

The apartment smelled of sulfur and fruits that morning; luckily not caramel. Some files were scattered on the ground, yet laid there undamaged by some unknown miracle. Clive's head was pulsating; his spine felt as if someone sliced it in half. He twiddled his fingers in search for his glasses, almost pushing off an empty glass from the counter. He wasn't supposed to sleep while bending down, one day he could never wake up.

There was a knock on the door, quite relentless and hard. Normally no one ever came to visit him, so his suspicion had risen immensely. After giving out a snort, he pulled out a kitchen knife and slowly approached the entrance to his tiny abode. His body odor became more and more atrocious, yet he didn't care. Before pulling the door handle, he heard a reassuring voice from the outside. It was Giix Fastscrew, his and Gaves's driver.

"Come on, Ronnie" said the gnome "up and at 'em!"

"S…" stuttered Clive "Second, a second I need!"

He jogged to his kitchen and put down the knife just beside his longed glasses.

"I need to do my hygiene!"

"You have five minutes!"

Clive cursed the fact that he had to wake up again. His entire mortal coil screamed at him, reminding itself of its existence. Every single bone yelled for help, his scar tore apart his right hand in half. Great, he thought. It's all because he fell asleep leaning instead of lying again, but it was the only way to have normal dreams. As he was collecting all the files from the floor, he tried to go back to his comfortable separation from reality and pain; closing in to the drifts inside his mind.

Clive excused the guardsmen and showed his badge as he entered the Stockade. Gaves was already waiting for him just near the staircase down to the prison.

"Where's Toby?" asked Ron

"You just missed him, we were supposed to start fifteen minutes ago.

"Yeah, ok."

Without a second word Clive started going downstairs with Garett who was only shaking his head with disapproval.

"You think he's gonna get us anywhere?" asked Garett, to no response. "Since, well, it was rare for the witnesses to ever make sense."

"They tried, and he will try too."

"We still have to interview that hunter as well."

"Please, one thing at a time"

"Sure, but it's all just bunch of bull if you ask me. Well, can't wait to go back to real work soon."

Real work is now, thought Clive. He didn't want to argue again, Gaves was always easily getting tired of cases more difficult than a stolen purse. Either way, none of it mattered, more people were getting involved in The Faceless Killer's works, thus more and more people started believing that something is indeed work.

Private Joel Keats was sitting on his bed in a transitional cell, stripped of his equipment and armor. He finally seemed more aware of his surroundings, and as the reality of the situation started making more sense to him, big rush of sobriety appeared to have had retaken his senses. Witnesses always looked like that the day after they survived their ordeal with the masked assassin. Despite that, they never spoke of anything more than the killer's appearance. His or her gender was always unknown to them, nothing seemed to work. Ron started understanding Garett's disapproval of those interrogations, but there was no running away from them. Formality tends to always hide the bigger picture.

As the footmen opened the cell, Private Rands was already waiting inside. Detectives greeted him silently and sat on wooden chairs conveniently placed for them near the bed for the sake of this interrogation. A footman is always needed during an interrogation to oversee it and write a report, and Rands already had a history with Clive and Gaves, so it seemed that Erlan chose the young soldier to create a soothing sense of familiarity, or to cover up possible abuse. Only coughing from the corridor and some distant chatter could be heard.

"How are we feelin', Joel?" asked Ron while trying to make an eye contact.

"I am still...hazy, but I think I'm ok." Responded Keats, trying to hide his gaze.

"Not too shabby after such an ordeal, huh?"

"I, um…"

"We will be straight with you" started Clive while showing Keats an official report. "There's nothing opposing you getting behind bar with what we got now. In fact, given how this law works, and how little people represent my and my friend's craft, you could end up in jail today."

"I see…" said Joel, nervously.

"Smart." Ron leaned back, trying to calm his pulsating spine. "So, we want to ask you a few questions, not only today but during next few days as well. You're going to remain in this cell for this time and maybe you're gonna make your way out of prison with 'only' a dishonorable discharge and a chance to begin anew."

"I see."

"So how about not only seeing, but acting as well, huh?" asked Gaves.

"I will, I will try my best, sir" assured Keats and swallowed his spit.

"Yeah, time will tell, friend." Said Clive and leaned forward. "So, tell me something about that shady business of yours, hm?"

"We were…we were supposed to meet up with someone that night, some kind of goblin to make a deal."

"Slow down, slow down. Start from the beginning."

Seeing how nervous Joel became, Ron told Rands to give some water to the interrogated. Joel sucked onto the canteen and chugged few big gulps before sighing out with brief relief and renewing his story. Clive then took out his little notebook, ready to write main points of this interrogation.

"So, I've only been at Westbrook for a month, my first assignment out of training. I heard the pay was decent enough, so it was one way to start a living. I was assigned to Lieutenant Upton's platoon, he was a real hardass. He tended to overuse his power sometimes, one day ordered Marrison to clean the privy just because he was one minute late for breakfast."

"And no one knew about his abuse?" asked Gaves.

"Oh, people knew, but Upton was very well respected" responded Keats confidently. "He mostly spent time in his haul, yet twice a week we went on a late night patrol in a group of six to watch out for, you know, outlaws and such. We usually patrolled northern territories, Westridge and stuff, once we were ordered to go east and report any findings to Goldshire. Nothing ever happened, though. First three times everything felt legitimate, I kind of started liking the guys, but forth time…"

"Take your time." Said Ron.

"No, it's ok." Said Keats and took a sip of water before proceeding.

* * *

The squad stopped at Goldshire, as they tended to do during their weekly patrols. Upton told everyone to wait for him as he went on to talk to Marshall Dughan to report in. Marrison, who was way more experienced than Keats but new to the squad nevertheless, was a well built, muscly man whose posture fit the armor as if he was born for it. He went on to ask few people for some gossip. Gerhel, who was the only one surpassing Marrison with his posture and strength, inspected his hunting knife with emotionless expression. Levitz, the fat one, just looked at the sky and admired the setting sun. People were in a rush, mostly because the next morning they would have a promise of a day off, thus probably sentencing barmaids in The Lion's Pride for having full hands of work throughout that night. Keats ate some of his rations, yawning after a long day spent walking around the woods, just looking for something peculiar. One time they busted that small gang of cutpurses, but nothing ever happened after that. Twice a week they just spent eight hours wasting time. He only thought about his bunk bed, envious of other squads that remained in Westbrook. Finally, Upton came back. Marrison appeared soon after, managing not to annoy his superior too much.

"I got bad news; we have to move to Azora Tower." Said Upton

"But, why?" asked Marrison. "We're gonna be back at morning, exhausted."

"Soldier, if you're so concerned about your own comfortableness and always consistent sleep schedule, then you shouldn't have enlisted."

"Sir, wouldn't it help to know where are we headed?" asked Keats, surprised that other members beside him and Marrison didn't seem to be surprised.

"We have to help fellow squad led by our fellow Dunstan Thorp, Dughan told me there's something nasty going on with murlocs, and we're the only squad that could help them right now." Upton gave out a serious, emotionless expression. "Come on, boys! We're leaving!"

"Aye." Everyone agreed in unison, Keats and Marrison did so with hidden skepticism.

Upton imposed faster pace after they left Goldshire to go east. For some reason city guards didn't object but only nodded towards the Westbrook Lieutenant. Maybe the excuse was valid, thought Keats, but something felt odd. Keats had to listen to his superiors, though, so he marched onwards with his squad. He looked at Marrison, who only nodded at the rookie, as if preparing for the worst. Weird, thought Joel, I trust those guys with my life, but now I can't. Teronson, the face of the group, just hummed some heartwarming melodies under his nose. Corporal Warrens just observed the area intensely, moving his overactive eyeballs in such pace that his bushy mustache shook even if he wasn't turning his head. Horsemen now were enjoying their night off in Goldshire, leaving all the work to the city's watchmen, so the roads were clear. This left Upton's squad as the only active group in the area right at that moment. They were far away from their sector, but Keats hoped that despite the ambiguity of the situation, he might finally see some action.

They walked fast until the sun went down. Just before last light escaped the sky, Azora Tower appeared in the distance before fully disappearing into the darkness. Upton ordered everyone to check the state of their blades and armor before meeting the other squad. Soldiers other than two new ones gave their officer an understanding look. After that, everyone threw themselves at the freshmen before they could draw their blades, and dragged them to the nearest trees. Marrison almost broke free, but then Upton put a sword to his throat. It was hard to see anything, since Keats's eyes didn't yet manage to get used to the lack of light.

"Everyone calm down!" yelled the Lieutenant "Stop wriggling, both of you!"

"I knew you were full of shit!" said Marrison and spat at his superior.

"Son," Upton, not used to be treated with such disrespect, gasped angrily. "You don't wanna disrespect me like that. In a minute, you'll listen what I have to say." He looked at his men, who were somewhat shocked at their leader's reactions. "Everyone, drag them into the forest, now!"

Keats gave up and let himself be tossed around by Teronson and Warrens. Levitz, and—surprisingly enough—Gerhel have had more difficult time trying to contain Marrison, who fought with all his might, but his every single kick was professionally avoided. He seemed like he didn't care about the possibility of having his throat slit.

"I'll kill every single one of you!" yelled Marrison. "I'll gut you like fucking fish!"

"That's far enough!" Everyone stopped and Upton broke the nose of the apprehended soldier with his sword handle. "Listen what I have to say, and you won't get hurt again, hear me?" There was no response. "Hear me, you asshole?"

Marrison stopped twisting his body left and right and finally stood in calmly place, breathing heavily and hanging from Levitz's hands, which were going around his stomach. Gerhel, looking worried, let go of Marrison's hands and stepped back.

"Good, good," Said Upton while still holding a tight grasp onto his sword's handle, but took it away from Marrison's throat. "Alright, long story short: This fairy tale about other ones' need of help is a lie. We are here to make a deal, boys; deal, which will make us rich in a long run. Once every four months we come here to do this. We will meet some people and buy weapons from them. This deal should go smoothly; I know the drill very well. I will tell you what we do with our freshly obtained, high quality weaponry, when we get onto the cart that should wait for us outside the forest and get us back to Westbrook in time to hide everything. Your careers won't be harmed, so stop making trouble for all of us. So, boys, time is short, are you in or no…"

Marrison head-butted Levitz from behind to set himself free and drew his blade, aiming it at his lieutenant. Gerhel, sick of having to treat his fellow men so poorly, stood dumbstruck and watched the situation play off. Upton, using his years of experience, parried the attack, throwing Marrison off balance and piercing his ribs from the side, right the armor's weak spot. Before the betrayed soldier fell on the ground and drew his final breath, he only managed to say: "I hope that the Light will abandon you, Upton."

"One day, maybe." Pronounced the Lieutenant while approaching apprehended Keats. "So, kid, hope you don't have any bad ideas?"

"No, no sir" Keats shook his head.

"Good, but we will keep an eye on you more tightly than ever, hear?"

"Yes, yes sir."

Upton finally hid his sword and ordered his men to let go of Keats and check to Levitz's bruised head. He then shamelessly wiped off the blood from his proudly shining armor with a piece of cloth.

"Leave Marrison here." He said before taking care of few more stains. "We will come back and put him on the cart later."

* * *

Giix—as always—was waiting for his favorite detective outside the Stockade. They weren't very talkative while getting into the vehicle. The gnome knew he wasn't supposed to ask anything, he just drove investigators where they were supposed to go. Now, their destination was Westbrook; many questions were to be asked.

"You'll tell me what you think, or what?" asked Gaves.

There was no response from Ron for a while. He just looked outside of the window and then finally drew his eyes onto the notebook of his.

"Why no one found Marrison's body?" asked Clive.

"One of a million questions if you ask me." Gaves neatened the buttons on his tuxedo "I'm surprised Marrison and Keats fell so easily to the trap."

"Yeah, but you ask me, they weren't used to Upton being as vague as he was.

"Maybe."

* * *

"Upton was always a pain in the ass" said Sergeant De Vries, morale officer in Westbrook Garrison "Never liked the guy. The only think I could respect him for was that he always kept boys in check, not letting them do much nonsense. I mostly ordered to supply them booze from time to time, so we had nice spiral of discipline and fun."

"Yeah, I see." Clive wrote few more points in his notebook. "Did he ever have a full control over this place?"

"He was more of a logistics specialist. Deputy Rainer had full control over squad management, their deployment and stuff. Upton mostly was here to keep things tight and to order our eggheads around, but he often abused his rank and interfered with Rainer's business. He had his own squad with which he patrolled the area from time to time, and as a superior he had full power over them. And he was rough, I tell you."

"I know that side of the story."

Clive thanked De Vries and left the storage. Gaves was waiting for him in the corridor, wrapping up his talk with Rainer.

"You came up with anything?" asked Garett.

"Not really. Bunch of stuff we knew already."

"I see." Gaves licked his lips. "Quartermasters say they keep tight track of their weapons, every single piece is written in their book. I saw it and there's nothing there that might indicate Upton registering any extra weaponry."

"What the hell were they doing, then?" asked Clive.

"Well, gentlemen." Started Rainer "As I said before, Upton's mischief went unnoticed for a long time. You're free to make a sweep through the main hall and get papers from our accountants. Upton spent most of his time there; he never really visited his room."

The three proceeded to go upstairs.

"Yeah, we can make a sweep" started Clive "Make sure to tell your men to give me full reports on your staff, routine and every odd occurrence."

"You got it." Agreed Rainer.

Chief Accountant Wiliard Bills and his assistant Mariah Serit were awfully talkative. They showed every single piece of evidence proving their innocence in the case. Gaves, having more experience with paper work than Clive, looked through pages and pages of information. No oddities were found, but the investigators asked for copies to later give that pyramid of numbers to professionals. Those accountants held tons of papers in their office, which was quite perplexing given they didn't have to do much more than keep up with Alliance's founding.

"I tell you, mister!" started Wiliard while wiggling his hands "I would know, I would know! We never asked our Lieutenant why he needed the reports for, he asked for them at least every two weeks!"

"Right." Clive just wrote some facts in his notebook. "Just remember to deliver everything to Tobias Erlan, our chief. If we find anything suspicious, we will be back."

Mariah sat quietly in her corner, writing something in her book. After being quieted for third time during Gaves's inspection, she didn't say a word more and just kept writing. This grabbed Ron's attention as he approached the skinny, middle aged woman and asked what she was writing.

"Oh, it is nothing really" said Mariah.

Ron just looked at her curiously.

"It's just a poem to wish you luck."

* * *

The party had slowed down, dwarven music stopped having such a kick and Shindae obviously tried to hide her sleepiness caused by having one too many drinks. Gaves lit his pipe again and found some sense of enjoyment in the crowd slowly leaving the tavern. There was nothing better than peace and quiet in a bar. Eyes were still somewhere there, though. Paranoia and nothing more, he thought. An ironic grin appeared on his face as he watched Shin struggling with intoxication.

"GG…"

"What is it, dear?"

"Why are you like this?

"Like what?" Garett looked at her, stretching his eyebrows with puzzled manner.

"Envious, distraught…"

"Shin…"

"You used to be more than that, and now you're also balding" Shin finally sat straight, rubbing her eye tiredly.

"What my balding has to do with anything?"

"It adds to your weariness."

"I am ok, I am just…"

She waited for him to finally spit out what's on his mind. He never wanted to say what he was about to, but the gaze from all around enveloped him with its power. Nothing existed out of his shaking lips for a brief moment, but finally he put the pipe down.

"I am loosing time, Shin." He gasped for air "I am loosing time…"

* * *

 _Detective Clive,_

 _The trail you follow is filled with bodies, but it is the right one._

 _I know all about it._

 _See me at Lakeshire Graveyard in five days._

 _An hour after midnight._

 _You have one chance._

The Inn's room was small yet cozy. After getting solid few hours of sleep, Clive felt desperate for a good glass of wine. The blur left torturing his eyes, his back wasn't hurting at all. I was already evening, and he spent last few hours obsessing over everything. The letter, files, his memories, abominations; his reading glasses fell down on the desk straight from his nose, reminding him to finally fix their frames. A loud yawn escaped his throat; he counted off minutes and seconds before making his way to the Graveyard. He changed his shirt, hid his knife and pistol in his trousers, put on his tuxedo and put his most important thing in its inner pockets: a notebook and reading glasses. Before going downstairs he drank a prescribed potion from a tiny vial.

Innkeepers were a pretty lovely bunch. A married couple made some quality food for the handful of visitors; bartenders didn't water down their drinks, which was rare amongst the representatives of their profession. Before sightseeing, Ron thought that a glass of wine would do him good.

The only people in the inn that night were two middle aged drunkards already passing out in the corner. No one seemed concerned about them for the time being. Only after some tired blacksmiths entered the abode were the bums asked to leave. It seemed that more visitors were about to arrive, indicating that the evening had officially started. Clive didn't want to stay for too long, so he asked for his wine to be poured into a bota bag for which he paid as well.

Lakeshire looked beautiful during the sunset. Only a few beams of light were visible from over the mountains, which lost their orange color with every passing second. Everyone finished their work, now it was time to reevaluate in the tavern or with the loved ones at home. Few remaining guards were chatting about what to do with their approaching day off, the bums, whose presence humbled Lakeshire Inn minutes ago, now were holding onto each other with singing songs from their past.

Clive only walked around, asking some people about life in the mountains, listening to the stories of their battles against the orcs, ambitious plans to rebuild Stonewatch, workers bravery and wit used to repair Lakeshire's pride, which was its bridge. Ron never knew that people around here were so proud of their past. It would be nice to survive until retirement and reside here, he thought.

For the next few hours though, his obsessive mind couldn't stop thinking about what was to come an hour after midnight. After the sun disappeared completely, only guardsmen and stubborn fishermen remained outside.

Clive went back to the inn soon after he felt someone's gaze on him again.

* * *

They left empty handed in terms of finding anything on Upton. Only things found in the hall and his room was bunch of official papers and orders. Upton didn't even keep any reminders of his life outside of military, which was both understandable and suspicious. Clive wrote in his notebook that there's a possibility of a hideout belonging to the corrupted lieutenant. There were bunch of papers in the trunk, which would soon be placed on some poor analyzers' desks to be studied for at least a month.

Elwynn Forest's roads were full of patrollers that noon. Seems like word of Upton's treachery reached other officers; for the next few days there probably will be attempts to track as many bandits as possible for good measure. Was it to reassure the public that Alliance didn't forget about daily matters—even after the war against Iron Horde—so that a simple Lieutenant's shady businesses won't spark as many questions as they would have otherwise?

"Have you noticed, Gaves…" started Clive.

"Huh?" gasped Gaves, not used to Ron starting their casual conversations.

"Have you noticed how easily the news spread?"

"What do you mean?"

"Authorities normally tend to hide their colleagues' sins and misdeeds a little better during the times of doubt."

"What makes you think there's something wrong with gossip?"

"The Faceless killed some important people, yet no one from the law department cares as they should. Think about it, why were they so slow to trust my theories? Most of our superiors have dirty secrets, so they should be more afraid about being exposed, or tied to their murdered friends. When some important Marshal dies without the help of our friendly assassin, we only hear about his 'great servitude towards alliance,' and nothing more."

"Can't you be talkative about anything else?"

"I tried, but wait and listen." Clive took out one of his older notebook sand put on his reading glasses. "Whenever The Faceless is involved, his victims' crimes always reach the public and enrage those who shout the most. Why not leave those secrets, tidy them up, and kill those annoying witnesses instead of throwing them to the Stocakde? Why it took them so many years to even start saying 'The Faceless Killer'?"

"I don't know, maybe those people, or this dude or whatnot, chooses the only people having such dirty conscience? I mean, not everyone is like Harsworth or…"

"Harsworth was more of a celebrity, and look what he has done." Ron started looking for something his notebook. "Also, remember about Benedictus? How do you know that your priest doesn't have drawings of little boys under his pillow?"

Garett didn't say a word.

"As for a detective, you always had hard time acknowledging how many people have secrets, Gaves."

"Shut the fuck up."

"You were always only any good with papers."

Clive realized he shouldn't have said that. His tongue never snapped during interrogations, so why was it always doing that whenever he spoke outside his work places for more than a second? He was doing so good to finally fit in, yet he squandered it yet again. He panicked for a moment while thinking about inevitable dinner with Erlan.

"And you talk too much shit about shit you should leave unturned." Gaves looked at his partner angrily. "Leave your tongue for interrogations."

"Ladies," interrupted Giix. "We're almost at Goldshire."

Nothing more has been said. They thought about giving Marshal Dughan's a quick interview, ask about Upton's reports. How surprised were they when they saw Dughan approaching their vehicle as if he was expecting them. A short, mustached man was accompanying him. It was none other than Dunstan Thorp, Sergeant from the crime scene at the hut. Giix stopped the car, calmed the weary, steaming engine, and let detectives outside.

"What's happening?" asked Clive, noticing people being in bigger rush than usual.

Dughan shook investigators' hands and let Thorp do the talking.

"Uh, friends…" started worried Dunstan. "I think you would like to see this."

They were near the Blacksmiths' workplace, so it wasn't far to the city center. The closer they approached it, the more and more citizens were passing them by, gossiping or shouting around. The chatter was getting louder, more intense and chaotic, everyone and their mother wanted to know what was happening at the city center. A huge crowd appeared right around the corner, Gaves almost tripped over some overly curious kids who ran past. Dughan used his authority and help of four of his men to get through the dense crowd. As they tried to squeeze through it, they heard few people shout at the soldiers, calling them cowards and blind idiots for letting it all happen.

Finally, as the group managed to reach the center of attention, a mutilated body of middle aged, gray haired man laid there in a pool of gore with limbs either severely cut open or twisted unnaturally. The victim wore a leather jacket with a striped shirt under it. A potent, muscly wolf was lying beside him with its head cut off and placed on its body along with the victim's eyes and tongue.

"Detectives…" said Thorp. "I believe you won't be interviewing our hunter."

* * *

Gaves held Shindae's shoulder tightly, not wanting to let go. So it happened that alcohol got to him quite a little bit more than it got to the elf. In fact, she seemed to be more comfortable with every round after he confessed to her about his broken perception of time. She hushed his drunken slur as he tried to regain at least a bit of common sense and spout out words that actually made sense. The last thing he wanted to do was to disappoint her.

"S…Shin…"

"It's ok GG, really."

"No it's not, no it's not."

Garett gestured that he was able to walk by himself now, but Shin inspected his movements for few steps, satisfied with the result. The sky had lot of stars, yet not a soul was to be seen on the street outside of some guards wielding torches. They were in civilized parts of The Old Town, Stormwind's nightlife wasn't likely to catch them there.

"Why won't you accept it, GG?" said Shindae after a minute of silence.

"I don't know…"

"The sooner you accept yourself, the sooner you'll find your perfect woman."

"I've squandered too many chances, I see…eyes."

"You keep thinking about Rhonda's eyes, don't you?"

The realization hit Gaves more than he thought. He never thought about Rhonda's eyes that much, yet he subconsciously felt in love with them more than he probably should have. He now remembered her gaze, how warm it was when he saw her, how cold was it when she left him, judging.

"I was seeing them tonight…you're right." Garett spouted out.

"You see them often?" asked Shin melancholically.

"More than I see mirrors."

"What does that mean, GG?"

Garett gave out a chuckle "Nevermind. I should just…help Clive."

"You'll think about work in the morning."

"I should help him gather himself after…" Gaves stopped for a moment, trying to calm his drunken vision. "…after Lakeshire."

Shindae smiled at him as she did just after she met Gaves in Pig & Whistle. Some additional music could be heard from the streets. People were celebrating their champions' victory; avoiding nearly certain cataclysm tends to rise people's need for partying.

"Garett…"

"What?" asked Gaves politely, surprised that she didn't call him by that stupid nickname.

"We haven't danced…"

Garett, without a word, gave her his hand. Before they spent next thirty seconds in total silence, just circling around the same few square meters in clumsy dance, he thought that maybe, just maybe he will manage to come back to his routine with bigger appreciation. He still had things to do. You can forget about the world, but world will never forget about your debts, he thought.

* * *

It was time. Five minutes were left until the established hour. Clive felt observed the entire time he killed hours during that evening, he was ready for the worst. He was already sticking out in his over official tuxedo and mannerisms. At some point, he was glad he made himself noticed; maybe something progressive would actually happen because of that. There wasn't any time for second thoughts though; he had to get to the Graveyard.

Lake Everstill stood still, even the fishes probably slept that night. Lakeshire had a special aura that would invade every single resident with a calm, quiet routine. It was hard to believe under how much stress people have lived for the past months. Now as the town was entirely shrouded in darkness, Clive couldn't let himself be noticed by any patrolling guardsmen.

An hour before midnight he gathered the rest of his things and put them in his bag. No one cared; people were too busy sharing their day's tiny frustration over a mug of fresh ale. Most of them had work next day, so some people left with Ron. They were rather tipsy and focused only to find a way back home.

Thirty minutes after midnight, a dense fog settled in. It was hard to see five meters ahead, but Clive knew he could trust his eyes; eyes, which were hardened throughout years of his hardships, despite needing help to read sentences. He took out his pistol in case of some mongrel using the extremely limited visibility to jump him. Unsurprisingly, there was not a soul around. Only crows were singing their choirs, but even they yielded to the crickets' solo.

He felt that the tiny burial ground is relatively close, but the fog was getting worse and worse. He made solid steps and started calling himself a fool in his mind. Maybe it was just a joke? Maybe he just wasted time he could use to help with the paperwork hell back at the office? It was too late now, and any chance to expose a potential assassin was better than none.

Step after step he focused his eyesight to notice first tombstones. There was no official entrance to the graveyard; it was exposed from both sides. Not that anyone would see the detective creeping around from other side of the like, now that one could barely see their nose tips. Clive took out his handy watch and checked that only seconds are left to the presumed meeting. He then inspected anything he could see in the area: rocks, ominous tombstones. Suddenly a ripple could be heard behind him, making him instantly aim his gun at that direction only to find a squirrel rushing towards the distance.

Waiting was killing him, every second felt like a thousand years. He cursed under his nose as he heard a loud scream coming out of Lakeshire, dazing him for a bit before an athletic, womanly figure in full leather armor appeared right in front of him with a set of daggers aimed at his throat. Her outfit was gray with vials and tiny blades attached to the belt around her waist. She had only one armlet strapped to her right shoulder, her posture suggested that she truly meant business. Clive holstered his gun and surrendered before she hid her daggers. Her face was covered with a black bandana; a deep burn ran across her forehead, short brown hair seemed oddly fitting to her appearance, which still seemed a little hazy because of the fog.

"Detective Clive…" said the mysterious woman "As watchful of a heart as I am, I won't be able to keep saving your life as I did tonight."


End file.
